Demon Accords 10: Rogues (2 page)

“Weren’t no bear,” Shorty answered, eyes and gun still focused on the woods.

“Had to be a bear, Short.  Nothing else up here could do that to a man,” Buck said.

The other three guides said nothing, but their body language indicated they were listening as much to the discussion as to the woods around them.

“Look at him, Buck.  Poor son-of-a-bitch got taken clean off the ladder.  Hit ‘em so hard, it yanked his arm right out of the socket.  Landed on him over there, nine, ten feet away.  Likely broke his back or crushed his ribs or both.  Then it cracked his head like a walnut,” the guide said, taking his eyes away from the woods long enough to point at a flattened black mound by the edge of the woods.  When the young sheriff’s deputy put his light on it, a single hazel eye gleamed back at him from the broken mess that used to be the richest man in this part of the county.  “I’ve been thinking about it since I found him.  Couldn’t think of nothing else.  See that leg.  I think it stood on him and kicked each of its hind legs, ripping his legs off and flinging them over here by the trail and the other one under the stand, kinda like a dog on a stinky roadkill.”

Buck’s light illuminated the darkness under the stand along with a camouflage-clothed leg and booted foot.

“I think maybe it stuck its snout into his chest and ripped out his heart, ‘cause I don’t see it in there,” Shorty said, turning his head and spitting a wad of tobacco juice into the woods.  Buck seemed to recall Shorty had quit that habit. 

“No animal does all that,” the big deputy said.

“Well now, no
natural
animal that
I’ve
come across, but you all watch any of that stuff what happened down in Washington?  Remember that big white wolf-creature and that other bear-wolf thing?  Them news folks said the white one was a werewolf.  A real, honest to God werewolf,” Shorty said.

“You can’t be serious.  You think the White Werewolf came up here and killed Morris fucking Alcombe the fucking Fourth?” Olson asked, glancing back at the guide.

“No you fuckwit,” the little guide snarled, too stressed and scared to be worried how the much bigger man might take his words.  “What I think is that if there’s one werewolf, there are others.  And I think a God-almighty big-assed monster of a wolf tore old Morris all to shit,” Shorty said.  “Which is why
my
gun is packing silver buckshot.”

“Werewolf?  He’s joking, right, Buck?” Olson asked, his nervous tone demanding the sergeant’s reassurance.  But instead of disagreeing, the young deputy was studying the scene with a new look in his eye, one that was rapidly approaching something like alarm.

“Right.  We’re out of here.  LeClair, you got point.  Shorty, you back him up.  Cort, you’re with me, and Olson, watch our six,” Buck said.

“Just as soon as these three replace their chamber rounds with these extra silver ones I got in my pocket,” Shorty said.  Sergeant Thompson was the only man not carrying a 12-gauge shotgun.

As quick as they arrived, the five men moved back out of the deep forest and back to the vehicles.  White clouds of frozen breath puffed from the seriously spooked men.  All of them were thoroughly experienced. All of them hovered on the edge of true terror at the thought of what might be lurking in the darkness just out of sight, their ancestral instincts screaming danger.

Nothing jumped out at them. The vehicles started smoothly, and then they were gone.

“Where the hell did you get silver buckshot, Short?” Buck asked as they bounced down the trail.

“Made ‘em up right after that Washington shit.  Melted down a bunch of coins and dropped ‘em through a screen into a bucket of cold water.  Silver don’t cast bullets for shit, too damned finicky, temperature-wise. Need special molds and shit. Seen some companies are making full-fledged silver ammo, though.  You’re gonna need to order up some of that, Buck.”

“That’s the very least of what I’ve got to do,” Sergeant Thompson said.  “I think I’ve got to make a whole bunch of phone calls first.”

“Who do you call for shit like this?” Shorty asked.

“Well, Sheriff Grable in Dover-Foxcroft first.  Then maybe some guys I know in New York.  Figured I’d start with them.”

“They know about werewolves in the crabby Apple?” Short asked.

“The guys I’m thinking of do, or at least they say they do. We’ll see,” Buck said, already making plans to return at first light. 

Thirty-six hours later

The Jeep alone would have drawn attention.  A late model four-door Wrangler Unlimited Rubicon dressed with top of the line off-road accessories: a winch, big knobby tires, extra lighting, and a dark aftermarket paint job that the manufacturer called Kevlar Slate.

In a town whose economic engines had gone mostly quiet, a town just like Fetter, Maine, an expensive rig like that would draw attention.  So would the New York plates.

It made sense then that more than a few pairs of eyes followed its progress down the main road till it stopped in front of the county sheriff’s substation.

If the Jeep was interesting, the young woman who climbed out of it was even more so.  Young and dressed in outdoor gear, she was an attractive brunette, maybe five-seven, perhaps in her early twenties. She was dressed in khaki hiking pants, tan boots, and an electric blue short-sleeve t-shirt that she quickly covered with a light plaid shirt.  The plaid shirt was new, a bit loose fitting, yet unable to hide the figure it enclosed.  She turned hazel eyes on the substation as her fingers automatically clicked the lock button on her key fob.  Hers was now the only locked vehicle on the street. An inch-long scar on her right cheek marred an otherwise unblemished face.

Looking up the street, she took in the details.  Two blocks back was the only gas station, a Mobil with a small, run-down convenience store.  Across from that was a bar named the Bitter Bear.  Probably a story there.  Old houses and the Post Office lay between the gas station and the old storefront now occupied by the sheriff’s substation. Other stores lay empty, the young woman spotting a closed florist, a boarded-up deli and several shuttered restaurants. Looming behind Main Street was a long, high-industrial building that looked barren and empty. Not much else.

Entering the sheriff’s substation, she found a tiny office, the desk manned by a young woman maybe a half-dozen or so years her senior.  Light brown hair and light brown eyes. The woman raised an eyebrow while her eyes scanned the newcomer from head to toe, flicking to the scarred cheek before landing on her eyes.

“The Sergeant isn’t seeing reporters at this time,” she said, her expression flashing a micro-expression of disdain. 

The newcomer could see a doorway to another office in back, two chairs and a corner of a metal desk visible.  Her sensitive ears picked up the sound of the office’s occupant shifting slightly at the receptionist ’s words.

“I’m not a reporter.  I’m here to see a Sergeant Buck Thompson.”

“He’s pretty busy,” the gatekeeper said, her tone conveying her lack of belief in the non-reporter statement.

“Could you tell him that Detective Eddie Bellini sends his regards?  Asked me to drive up here and pay a call on your sergeant,” she said, eyes on the receptionist, ears on the far office.

The receptionist frowned, realizing that her initial perception of the situation was off.

A chair scraped in the back office and then she heard the sound of boots hitting the floor.  Both women looked back at the doorway as a large male figure filled the frame.

“Bellini sent
you
?”

The young woman studied the sergeant, taking in his height, shoulder width, and bushy black beard in a practiced glance. 
Hmm, not bad.  No wonder little miss secretary is territorial,
she mused.  Not her type exactly, but not bad on the eyes.  In the past, he might have been of more interest, but not now.  Still, better then a fat, balding, near-retirement has-been.

“Nice to meet you too, Sergeant Thompson.  Lisa Renault.  Eddie didn’t
send
me.  He said you had a problem up here… an unusual kind of problem.  Suggested it might be my kind of problem,” she said, letting his condescension roll off her.

Now he was frowning, which looked a bit threatening, what with the beard and the dark eyes.  Part of her took it for aggression. That part knew how to handle aggression.  The rest of her reined the first part back.
She gave herself a mental pat on the back for maintaining her calm. What was that called?  Oh yeah. Positive reinforcement.

For his part, the Sergeant saw an attractive young woman whose casual stance implied complete confidence.  He revised the attractive bit to
very
attractive even as his eyes picked out other details, including the scar.  Her plaid shirt looked brand new, but her khaki pants were comfortably worn.  And on closer inspection, he noted the pants were more covert tactical than outdoorsy, with reinforced knees and concealed cargo pockets.  In fact, he would bet money he had seen the same model pants in one of his law enforcement catalogues. 

Likewise, her boots were desert-toned combat models instead of name-brand hikers.  The clothes weren’t tight, but in the few places they clung, they outlined a fit, muscular physique that made him wonder how she would look in a bikini.  Brown hair in a ponytail and amused hazel eyes studied him right back.  Oddly, she wasn’t wearing a belt.  He’d have pegged her for definite law enforcement if she’d been wearing a belt.

“Cop?” he asked.

“Consultant,” she answered.

“ID,” he requested.

Now she frowned, but without answering pulled a plastic driver’s license from a small bundle of cash and credit cards that came from her front pocket.  Most women carried a purse and internal wallet.  Women cops would have had a credential case. 

“I’m going to call Eddie,” the young sergeant said.

“Knock yourself out,” Lisa Renault said.  He turned back into his office and simultaneously heard the front door shut.  Spinning around, he was just fast enough to see the young woman walking past the window in the direction of the Mobil station.  A new model Jeep was sitting at the curb.  He looked at Claire, but she just shrugged and rolled her eyes, so he went back into his office to call his NYPD contact.  His gut had wanted him to go rushing out the front door in suspicion.

“Bellini, NYPD,” a voice he recognized from his military days answered.

“Ziti, it’s Thompson.”

“The Big Buck himself?  How’s your
problem
going?”

“You sent me a girl named Renault to handle my, er, problem?”

“Renault?  Oh.  She’s there already? Must have headed right up,” Bellini said.

“What’s her story?”

“Nope. You asked for an expert on werewolves and I was able to get you the one
we
rely on. 
And
she got up there in record time.  You don’t get more than that, Buck.  Her story is her own, and
I
ain’t gonna be the one to tell it,” the New York cop said.  His voice held a measure of respect and perhaps just a tiny bit of trepidation, at least at the last sentence.

“Eddie, this crime scene was like nothing I’ve ever seen.  I gotta know if this girl is up for it,” Thompson said.

“Just worry about yourself, Buck.  Don’t be fooled by the good looks and don’t go trying to impress her or protect her, and for God’s sakes, don’t be hitting on her, wife or no wife.  She’s not like anyone you’ve ever met, but she’s exactly the one for your problem. Now, I gotta go. The full moon’s got the wackos coming out of the woodwork.  The
regular
wackos.  Not the furry kind,” Bellini said.

“All right, Ziti.  Thanks, I guess.”

“ You
guess
? Shit, Buck, you owe me big for this one. Like moose lottery big, get it?”

“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do to draw a tag.”

“Hmpf.  Like I don’t believe you can’t get a moose tag anytime you want.  It’s
me
you’re talking to, Buck.  I know what a wheeler-dealer you are.  But do me and you a favor and treat that young lady with respect. Got it?” the detective said, hanging up without waiting for an answer.

Buck Thompson had gone through hell with the city-bred Bellini and trusted him implicitly.  That said, Morris Alcombe’s death was far outside anything they had faced in the Sandbox, and the young sergeant was having trouble reconciling the death scene with the young woman his old army buddy had sent to help him.  Still, there had been a large portion of respect in the detective’s voice when he spoke about her and maybe even the tiniest amount of fear. 

He woke up his computer and typed her name and driver’s license number into the National Crime Information Center site and hit enter.  His computer went a little wonky.

First a photo of a blonde woman a good fifteen years or so older popped up, but the open window instantly closed and then almost as quickly reopened with a picture that matched the young woman outside.  Frowning, Buck hit the back button but the damned machine just took him back to the data entry view.  He reentered the information and the software delivered him the smiling picture of the brunette he’d just met.  The photo looked like it had been taken recently.  Like yesterday.  And who the hell smiles for a license photo?  No matter what he tried, he couldn’t get the blonde picture back.

Her record was clean and her address matched the license, listing her as a resident of Manhattan.  The plastic on her license was hardly scuffed, yet the issue date was over a year ago. Something odd here.  Time to go to the source.